Just One More Time
by Zo One
Summary: Arthur has a problem, but he can't see it. Sometimes it takes destroying those that love you before your eyes open, hoping that they're still waiting for you on the other side. AU; USUKUS; Angst;
1. Chapter 1

_Important Notes: _Please don't read this if things like, adultery, open relationships, and a fair amount of angst make you queasy or uncomfortable. Also please be warned about practically non-existent FrUk and RusEng.

**Just One More Time**

_Prologue_

The music in the building was tinny and muffled behind the closed bathroom door. There was a bottled applause as the band finished a number, picking up their instruments for another. He still had a glass of scotch wrapped securely in his hand, the amber contents swirling around in the glass with his inebriated movements.

A young man – Arthur couldn't remember his name – was pressed against one of the porcelain mosaic sinks, mewling drunkenly as Arthur's tongue licked a wet trail up the side of his throat. His free hand slid into the front of the man's pants even as a patron of the classy bar threw open the door. They were pointedly ignored, but Arthur had no intentions of stopping either way. He wouldn't mind putting on a show; it might even spice things up.

The young man gasped loudly and Arthur phone began to ring in his pocket of his slacks. Even through the muddled bliss of alcohol, he recognized the jingle as the ringtone set for his wife. He dropped his scotch somewhere on the sink in favor of turning off the device, grinning against the milky skin of the man's throat before him. "Let's take this somewhere more fun, shall we?" he asked deviously, his voice wavering slightly.

Arthur only removed his hand from the man's pants after he nodded enthusiastically, curly cinnamon colored hair bobbing with the movement. Scotch wet the bottoms of their shoes as it dripped from the side of the sink where it had spilled. The man took him by the hips as they sauntered from the bathroom, drunk, merry, and very much ready for a romp in the bed.

It was just another night on the town. Another nameless face and another charge to his VISA; everything was blurred, his memory after the bathroom hazy, but in the morning when he woke to an empty yet rumpled bed, he felt sated and a thick sense of what had to be accomplishment, filled his chest.

He took his time showering and redressing himself in the clothes he wore last night before removing the 'do not disturb' sign from the outside knob of the hotel door and tossing it onto the floor.

On his arrival home, his wife gave his appearance a quick once-over, her nose scrunching up in distaste before she took a long sip of her white wine and her half-lidded blue eyes fell back onto the words of her Oprah recommended novel. "Good afternoon, husband," she said offhandedly, her French accent thicker as if to express her annoyance at his disgruntled presence.

"Yes, yes, well and good to you as well," he sighed out, running a hand through his yellow tousled locks. Arthur began to walk towards his bedroom, unbuttoning his undershirt as he made his way through the lavish hallways of their home. Jeanne was a wealthy woman (which in turn made him quite the wealthy man). She was originally an upstart model when they had met, slowly rising to fame and hitting the apex of her modeling career when they were married. Arthur had only been eighteen, Jeanne was twenty four. Before long Jeanne moved onto bigger and better things; fragrances, a clothing line, the start of her radiant acting career.

"And don't forget the premiere is next week. You'll have to quit your… nighttime activities – if you can manage to do so for a single week." Arthur grunted at the floating noise of her voice and closed his bedroom door tight to undress himself and freshen up. He quite liked their house in America – preferably to the large flat that they had. Two years ago their rooms hadn't been separate, but as time passed it had become habit, and these days neither of them bothered to question the gradual change.

He changed into a set of clean clothes, dabbed a bit of cologne on his wrists and neck, combed his hair back and sighed. Another day was ahead of him, ready for the taking. After brushing his teeth to rid himself of the thick aftertaste of alcohol, Arthur joined Jeanne in her sitting room, taking the daily paper and opening it with a yawn. "Did you enjoy yourself last night?" she asked him, just as she always did. The question was sharp and implying, but Arthur shrugged.

Arthur opened the paper to the financial section. "I don't remember much of it, to be fair," he replied easily. "I do recall that that pub in particular had very good Muga wines, imported from Spain." Jeanne's lips pursed. Her pink lipstick smeared slightly before she sighed softly. "But how was your night? Did you have an enjoyable time?"

"Indeed I did. I had the chance to dine with my mother, in case you forgot she was visiting." She turned a page in her book with a languid movement of her wrist. "Although I'm sure you did."

He grunted in acknowledgement, scanning over the rise and fall of the stocks – specifically the few that he had invested in. Arthur glanced over at Jeanne, but her face was downturned, purposefully ignoring his gaze. Even after five years of marriage Jeanne was still beautiful, tall and slender. She had turned thirty months ago and even though with the media outbreak over their age difference, neither of them cared. Arthur didn't care, Jeanne didn't care that Arthur didn't. Nothing mattered as long as, by the end of the day, they could still talk to each other. At least, that was Arthur's take on things.

"I didn't forget," he grumbled, suddenly losing interest in talking once he noticed one of his more expensive stocks went down two points overnight. "I simply don't find pleasure in speaking with your mother. Mutual dislike, I assure you."

"I can't imagine why."

Arthur folded the newspaper into sections, tucking it under his arm and he stood with a frown. "I'm going to head out and find some lunch." He paused, his fingers tearing at the edges of the newspaper, fraying the corners. "Would you like to join me?" he tacked on.

"No, thank you." Jeanne finally looked up from her book, her deep blue eyes meeting his for the first time all day. "Try not to get in too much trouble, no?"

"I'll keep that in mind." The carpet cushioned the noise of his footsteps, softening them to a mute shuffle. He was suffering a headache, but that was unavoidable. He'd had worse, will have worse in the future, but he knew that right now a good meal and a cool drink would help settle the matter. And so he set off in one of his wife's many convertibles, opting on one that was black in color. To him the make and model didn't matter much. It was the price tag, how many heads turned to watch it drive by.

He parked the car carefully, eyeing other vehicles in the parking garage as he walked through and onto the sidewalk, satisfied that his choice today was the most appealing. The day was warm, and Arthur set about finding a sit-in diner to have lunch, preferably somewhere that served some authentic English foods; fish and chips, bangers and mash – anything truly. He wondered if it was because he was beginning to feel homesick.

As he walked, he became aware of a small gathering of people on the corner of one block, the twanging sound of an acoustic guitar being brushed and manipulated into song, accompanied by the low hum of song by a voice that wasn't quite musically trained, but the effect was pleasing enough. Arthur stood around the edges of the small group, trying to look aloof and uninterested.

The final notes pulled from the guitar and the street musician pulled a cowboy hat from his head, revealing a mop of dirty blond hair and a pair of bewildering blue eyes behind a set of silver framed glasses. Most people resumed their business as the musician passed around his hat, open and hopeful. Some people tossed in wadded up bills into the hat, others gave the young man a pat on the back, while one girl tucked a fake flower into the pocket of the man's jeans and scampered away to her indigent mother.

When everyone, for the most part, left, the young man glanced inside his hat at his spoils and smiled, pressing the garment carefully back onto his head before taking up his instrument once again. "Pardon me," Arthur found himself calling out, moving in closer to the spectacle of a man. "I just so happened to hear you playing."

Eyes the color of picture perfect skies turned to look at him, wide and curious, and, if Arthur wasn't mistaken, hopeful. "Did you? I hope you liked it. I'm not great at it, but… well yeah." The man picked at his rumpled clothes underneath Arthur's scrutiny. He was one of the homeless population in L.A., the nervous shift in his posture, the unshaven stubble – Arthur was rather impressed that the man managed to stay so hygienic thus far.

"Oh yes. I was quite impressed. I am no talent agent," and at that point he could see the sandy blond's shoulders hunch, "but I enjoyed myself and, well, I daresay I would like to treat you for a meal as a thank you."

The musician's gaze turned skeptical. "Uhm, thank you for the offer, but I'm going to have to say no. You don't know me, and I don't know you – thanks though, it's really kind of you." The man's grip tightened on the neck of the guitar, slowly stepping away from Arthur, as if unsure whether or not to believe his luck – or lack thereof.

"Now, now, no need to be shy." Arthur grinned. This was turning out to be a fun game, a reckless decision on his part, and there was a thrill that came with it, it made his heart race and his blood warm. "It's just a bit of hospitality. See that café there? I'd be happy to treat you to something, right there." He made a few passive gestures, as if the young man in front of him was a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second. "And it's a moot point to say we cannot share a meal because we are strangers. How else does one make friends, if they refuse to meet those that they do not know, hm?"

He waited, and when there was no response from the man, Arthur forcibly stuck out his hand. "My name is Arthur, Arthur Kirkland. May I ask yours?"

The sandy blond's face went blank for a long moment. Finally he reached out and grasped Arthur's hand, giving it a weak shake. "I'm Alfred F. Jones. I… I just – I can't believe. I _know _you. You're Jeanne Bonnefoy's husband. I mean holy shit I've seen you in tabloids back home."

"Ah yes, well, the fame really isn't my own. Now Alfred, would you mind lunching with me? As you can tell I'm in need of company, since my wife is out this week with her mother, preparing for the premiere next week, you see." He smiled faintly. "I'm rather grateful to be kept out of their business. Even after five years I find that the French have strange ways."

Alfred smiled, a gesture so harmless and fascinating, that Arthur found himself quite enjoying his impulsive decision. "It would be much appreciated. I'd hate to be a burden on you."

"Nonsense," Arthur said, placing a hand on the small of Alfred's back, beginning to urge him towards the small café across the busy street. "You'll see that I rather enjoy company of… all kinds."

If Alfred seemed unsettled by the sudden turn in his life, he didn't show it. They sat outside, Alfred's buffed guitar leaning up against the stool he sat on. Arthur babbled pleasantries to him, enjoying the way the American seemed to squirm and grin, trying to put as much into the conversation as he got from it. And once you looked past the dirt and rumpled clothes, Alfred was a cute thing – highly undesirable, but cute nonetheless. Arthur ordered for the both of them, despite Alfred's protests. He knew the man would attempt to get the cheapest thing on the menu, and that wouldn't suit Arthur at all. It was his hospitality, and he refused to be undermined by Alfred's good intentions.

"Now, I recall you mentioning that you've seen me in tabloids 'back home', so I take it you're not originally from Las Angeles?" Arthur asked, sipping on his water and relaxing as his headache seemed to be a problem of the past. It was amazing what a little conversation and a tall glass of ice water could do (granted last night he hadn't had as much to drink as usual, but he was sure he would be sleeping early tonight).

Alfred shifted uncomfortably in his stool. "No, I'm not. I'm from Spring Hill, Kansas. If you've ever heard of it, I'd be surprised. It's a small town, but not too awfully small. I can't describe it, but you definitely get that small town feeling."

Arthur nodded. "I understand. I'm originally from a village in Kent. Lovely place; there were horse races that ran nearby, so about once a year we were celebrated and there were quite the few new faces running about." He sighed wistfully. "I do miss it. America doesn't seem to have that… enchantment, I don't think. But then again, I've only lived here for two years. Perhaps I'm looking in all the wrong places?"

"It's possible," Alfred said unhelpfully as their food was brought to them. "I mean sometimes it's right underfoot, and you would never bother looking there. And then sometimes, it just finds you when you least expect it." He smiled genially at Arthur's silence and carefully began to eat, as if attempting to savor every last taste.

Arthur found that his curiosity about this abnormality named Alfred was far from sated. He pulled out his cell phone from his trouser pocket and held it up purposefully. "What's your number?" he asked, rifling through his contact list, puzzling over a few of the names – he had no recollection of over half of them. He shrugged. "I'd very much like to see you again. To treat you, talk, whichever. You're a fascinating young man, Alfred. I want to know you better, if that is alright?"

Alfred seemed to choke on the lime-grilled chicken in his mouth. He swallowed thickly and took a long drink of his iced tea. "I – I'm sorry?" he coughed out, rubbing circles into his chest. "Not to be rude, but… ah, you're famous – well, sorta. And I'm… _not_. I'm just not. Besides, my phone was shut off a month or so ago – trying to save up on funds and whatnot. So my number wouldn't do you much good."

"But you still have your cell phone, yes?" Arthur asked, watching as Alfred nodded very slowly. "Then I might ask for your number, just in case you ever decide to use your phone again." He did his best to give Alfred an expectant, but hopeful look. "And do you think me so shallow to care where a friend comes from? I haven't many in this country, so even one new acquaintance means a lot to me."

Hesitantly Alfred, recited his number and told him what carrier he had (Arthur was curious if he would receive free calls or not), explaining that he might never use it again other than for a convenient clock, but Arthur wouldn't be dissuaded. Alfred took up his guitar once again, giving a contented sigh that came along with a full stomach. "Mr. Kirkland – ah, Arthur… thank you so much for the meal, and, well I wish there was a way I could pay you back."

"Nonsense, your company is enough." Arthur stood, grasping Alfred's hand for a shake. He watched Alfred leave reluctantly, waving timidly from the other side of the street before disappearing into the crowds. Arthur paid the waitress and pulled up the GPS app on his mobile, looking for the nearest Verizon store, but before his fun could begin, his phone rang.

"Hello?" he answered with a flourish, pressing the phone to his ear.

A humming, baritone voice met his ears, and Arthur smiled to himself, checking the crowds around him for a pair of blue eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses – even though he knew he wouldn't see the man again for some time. _"Oh, hello. I just thought I would call to remind you of the party for your wife this weekend? You do remember of course, yeah?"_

"Ah, Ivan, as if I would forget." He examined his blunt nails casually. "Now is there a reason you called me, hm? I was in the middle of something."

"_Oh, no reason. Just calling an old friend. I'll see you there, and maybe something will come of it? Maybe yes, maybe no?"_

Arthur chuckled. "Don't count on it, you bastard," he said humorously. "Jeanne and I will be there, and prompt as always. Now, I really must go, I've business to attend to." He hung up before the Russian could say anything else, pulling up his GPS app once again.

It was time for his games to begin.

- End Prologue -

* * *

_Unimportant Notes: _Hi guys. I just wanna explain this fic really fast. This is "Jordan's Socialite AU" (sanguinehero), as it's pretty much 100% her ideas going into this and I'm just putting it into words for her. Updates are going to be pretty slow as I work on This Pretense and school becomes more intensive.

I hope you like angst. :U


	2. Chapter One: Beginning

_Important Notes: _I would like to answer a few questions: the FrUk in this fic is Fem!FrancexUK. Jeanne – France. This chapter has RusEng warnings. :U

**Just One More Time**

_Chapter One: Beginning_

Arthur Kirkland was a man of many things. He was a gentleman, he sought worldly pleasures, and he was, for the most part, a humble and content man. But when Arthur Kirkland wanted something, he was very hard put to change his mind, and Alfred F. Jones seemed like the perfect new toy.

Without much care he paid off Alfred's outstanding phone bill, deciding that the best time to call the homeless American would be after the party for his wife's premiere, when he would be less occupied for… other things.

So that weekend he found himself walking into a chic hotel with a grand reception room that was "perfect" (as Jeanne had said) for the party that was going to take place. Jeanne's movie premiere was back in England because it would seem that BBC never tired of her villainous French woman roles. Tonight would be a private celebration for herself and her friends in America – Arthur was just there for her publicity.

"Oh Natalya, dear! It's wonderful of you to host this party for me! How have you been these past weeks?" And with a graceful flourish, Jeanne detached herself from Arthur's arm, flitting further into the room to take the arm of a tall woman with long platinum blonde hair, severe features and dark eyes to match. Arthur never much liked her, but she had been Jeanne's first friend in America, a fellow model with good connections and was only a few years younger than herself.

Arthur hung back and headed for the bar to grab a starter drink. He wasn't fond of the parties that Jeanne dragged him to. They were always too high class, filled with people that don't even bother to give him a second look. He was used to it, but that also didn't mean he had to enjoy it. It was at a party just like this when it all began.

He shrugged to himself, taking a slow slip of his drink as he began to cross the enormous room, nodding at those that greeted him and blatantly ignoring the ones that didn't. Arthur stood in front of the desert table, sipping at his, most likely, imported beer as he looked over the small, decorative confectionaries. How much did Jeanne pay for all of this anyway?

"Oh hello Arthur, it is nice to see you came."

Arthur looked up from the cakes to see a tall, husky man with a slight smile on his square features. "Why hello Ivan," he greeted curtly, taking another sip of his beer. "I take it the catering business is going well for you?" Ivan nodded, gesturing nonchalantly to the room about them – the whole set up was his work, and he was damn good at it. "And I take it that you and your sisters are well?"

Ivan was a hulk of a man, and when he leaned close, is all Arthur could do was sip at his beer and involuntarily remember every inch of that hard body next to him. "Oh yes," Ivan muttered softly, "We're all very well, thank you. But, now that you're here, I do have a question for you."

The lip of his cup hovered just by his mouth as he considered Ivan's words. "Oh? And what might this question be?"

"I was going to be wondering if tonight you are busy. If you are, no big deal. I am only curious."

Arthur took a longer drink and grabbed a cake from the table. He thought of the boy he was chasing; that Alfred. It would still be a long while before he was happy with where that game brought him. He wasn't much for dry spells, either. Arthur glanced over at Ivan – that same face that, two years ago, had convinced him that no one really cared about what he did with a cold smack of reality. "How about," he said finally, swirling the cup in his hand, "you talk to me after a few more of these. And _then_ we'll see how busy I can be, hm?"

Ivan's smile was thin and pursed as he nodded, moving away to attend to his duties as the catering host of the night. Arthur left the confectionary table, a cake in hand. It would be best not to get hammered on an empty stomach. Jeanne found him shortly after to pose for a few pictures. This was her scheme, he knew. They had a happy marriage, she would exclaim as she kissed him on the cheek. The tabloids loved them, the paparazzi loved _her_, and _she_ loved the publicity.

Arthur figured they were happy _enough_, and whatever Jeanne wanted him to do, he'd do it to keep her content. And it wasn't long before Natalya came to whisk Jeanne from his arm, sending him a haughty look as she pulled Jeanne further into the room and into a mass of immaculately dressed people. He wondered sometimes what Natalya told Jeanne about him, about her brother, about what always happened late at night when everyone was too tired or drunk to notice what was going on right underneath their noses.

Sometimes he wondered if Jeanne cared.

"Of course not," he huffed out to himself, going to fetch another cup of strong, European imported beer. If Jeanne cared, she would say something, and since she hadn't – then there was nothing to get his knickers in a twist about.

The night passed swiftly by. Arthur mingled as best as he could, sometimes with celebrities, most times with other tag-alongs such as himself, his head warm and fuzzy from the alcohol. At one point he had been able to say that that alone was a good time: enjoying food, drink, and conversation. But not now, not when he knew what a good time really was. The more he had to drink, the more he wanted to burst out of the crowded room and get away from all the nonsense about him.

So when Ivan approached him again that evening, coaxing him away from the crowds and into a dark corner, Arthur couldn't help but to say yes, to let himself be led out of the back of the building and between a set of hotel sheets. Ivan's body was familiar against his, and even in his drunken state it didn't take long for him to arouse himself and his partner for the night. Their motions were routine and swift, seeking only the pleasure of themselves – uncaring of the other. It was a game. It didn't matter who it was that touched them, who fucked them and brought them to completion. There was no romanticized gazes, no prolonged grazing of fingers against naked skin. The television played softly in the background and Ivan asked Arthur to change the channel, even as he pushed the Englishman down onto the bed, his cock buried into Arthur's ass.

It was just a convenient answer; it was a simple part of life, a fulfilled need.

Sometimes he wondered why when his head, hair soaked with the sweat of effort and sex, touched the downy hotel pillows, he felt so sick.

* * *

Some nights Alfred missed home. He lay in the back of his old, beaten Ford Bronco, the aluminum cover above his head thankfully shielding him from the fat droplets of steady rain. There were nights like these when even all the shabbiest blankets he owned wouldn't keep the damp chill out of his bones, the feeling that he wanted to go home, back to his own bed and his family with meals every day and a roof over his head – all the things he had taken for granted just under a year ago.

And yet… he couldn't. He had promised himself he wouldn't go back there – to that nothing town with no opportunities. This was where he needed to be, where he would most likely be discovered and offered a job that coincided with his dreams. He didn't want to be stuck working at the paper mill like his dad and brother, didn't want to do everything that was expected of him. Alfred wanted to be free, and if being free meant living out of his Bronco, then so be it.

He rolled over in his makeshift cot, trying to curl into himself even further for warmth. The rain would be over soon enough, and tomorrow would be a new day filled with new chances. So is all he had to do was endure.

The next morning Alfred was woken by a distantly familiar noise – his phone was ringing. In a groggy panic he grabbed the device off the scratched metal bottom of the Bronco's truck bed. "Hello?" he answered swiftly, unthinking. He didn't bother to think _why_, after nearly three months after his phone was turned off and it taking place of an expensive alarm clock, that it would be ringing at nine in the morning.

"_Is this Alfred F. Jones?"_ And there was a voice he hadn't heard in days and yet thought about all the time.

His voice trembled a little, but he answered cautiously. "Yes…? Is this – is this Arthur by any chance?"

There was a throaty chuckle on the other line and Alfred bit his lip anxiously. What was going on? _"Why yes, yes it is. I'm pleased to see that you remember me so well. I hope you don't mind that I had a chat with your service providers on your behalf, but I wanted to get ahold of you. I'd like to ask a favor, if you don't mind it."_

"You… you got my phone turned back on? I… thank you, but I won't be able to pay the bill – or even pay you back! I'm sorry." Alfred sat up, his heart racing with worry and his throat constricting. The last thing he wanted was a debt with a celebrity!

"_Fret not. In fact, if you're so worried about paying me back, why don't you keep me some company this week? My wife is back in England and I'm not going with her due to some things I have to take care of on this side of the pond. And before you argue, I'm a lonely man here, so company is priceless and I would very much enjoy yours."_

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, leaning forward to push his head into the open, sliding window that separated the front seats from the trailer to check and see how much gas he had left. "I uhm, well I mean if you want to. I'm usually around fifteenth – kinda where you saw me the other day. But, well, before anything I just want to ask: Why are you doing this? Really? I'm just a nobody country kid and you're… _famous_, even if it's you know… indirectly. So why me?"

There was a long, thoughtful pause on the other line before Arthur finally said, _"You fascinate me, Alfred Jones. And I'm not sure if it's healthy or wise, but I do wish to get to know you – if just for this week. One week can't do any harm, and maybe by then you'll believe me and… well, we can go from there." _Arthur grumbled something, but Alfred couldn't make it out. _"I miss having a… _friend._"_

"Oh." Alfred pushed himself back into his makeshift cot. "I… yeah okay. Just this week, right? I mean I have a couple places to be, but not all that much. So I guess you can give me a call whenever and I'll tell you where I'm at? Is that alright?"

"_Yes, that's perfectly well. How about I meet you for lunch this afternoon? Eleven thirty. Thank you, Alfred, I'll make sure to give you a call at about eleven." _

He registered an affirmative, hanging up his phone after an unsure goodbye. He wasn't sure what to expect from this man – this media star. Part of him felt that it must be some kind of prank, a joke to shame him for others to laugh at his not-so-advantageous place in life right now, but then there was another part of him that wanted to believe that this was his _chance_. This man's hospitality was a gift and it was gracious and that he should accept it as such. But somehow keeping him company didn't seem like a legitimate way to pay the man back. Alfred shrugged. Either way he only had about two hours before Arthur called him, so he had about enough time to find a public restroom to clean up the best he could.

* * *

Alfred was known by his family for having his head up in the clouds. He himself didn't think that he was unrealistic, not really. He had dreams and goals, and maybe he was a bit too positive about things that would normally put a person into a hard swing of blues, but if Alfred was anything, he was firm believer in the idea that hard work and a few risks would get you closer to where you wanted to be in life.

So when Arthur inevitably called him back, he considered answering and reciting the street corner he stood at a leap of faith. He was going to trust Arthur, even if it seemed wrong that the man would stoop down several social classes to talk to him. And maybe something good would come out of it all.

Alfred sat on the curb, leaning against a parking meter with at least thirty minutes still on the timer. He had opted to leave his guitar locked up in his Bronco, unsure of what was going to happen today, although he kept his tip-collecting hat, pushing it down further as people walked passed.

A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see Arthur, looking just as put together and classy as the first time Alfred had met him. With a wan smile Alfred stood up, brushing off the seat of his pants. "Oh hey there Arthur," he said unsure if he should go for a handshake or not; he felt disgusting next to Arthur. What he wouldn't give for a shower and a clean load of laundry some days.

"Hello, Alfred," Arthur greeted, stretching his hand out for a handshake, surprising Alfred. "I'm glad to see you're here." His smile was curled, almost as if he was secretly pleased about something that Alfred couldn't fathom. "I have a treat in store for you today."

Alfred faltered during their brief shake, tucking his hands into the pocket of his jeans. "Oh? I hope it's nothing too much. I'd feel bad."

Arthur made a huffing noise, batting at the air between them as if to knock away Alfred's words. "Think nothing of it! Now, I mentioned lunch and I know of a diner around here. Jeanne despises it, so I know the food is comfortable and American."

"Oh?" Alfred quickly fell in step with Arthur as the Englishman began to walk down the sidewalk. "What kind of food does she like then?"

"She enjoys the more gourmet foods – French cuisine, and sometimes Italian if she feels like her tastes aren't refined enough." Arthur shrugged. "She's earned the right, I suppose. Although there are times when I wish for something messy and homey, but… that could just be me."

The American quickly jumped on the topic, making Arthur smile. "Oh no I know exactly what you mean! That's how I feel about my mom's homemade pork an' bean chili – I mean not even the best restaurants in the world can compare to that after a long day working out in the cold." And when Alfred smiled, so naturally and uncaring, it was easy to see past the all of the material flaws; the rumpled clothing and dirty jeans, the dirt beneath his nails and the darker color of his blonde hair that came from a buildup of grease. In those moments Arthur could see that he was a cute young man, and he would be hard pressed to find one better for what he had in mind.

"I enjoy homemade foods – I don't get that opportunity much, and so in the off chance that I do, it makes me want to take a holiday back home to see my family, but ahh... you know how it is." He cleared his throat. "Any way, I want to thank you again for your company."

Alfred nodded. "Hey, after everything you've done for me I'd do anything for you. This almost doesn't seem like enough!" He grinned at Arthur, and Arthur had to hide his sharp smile behind a hand.

Instead of continuing with that line of thought, Arthur brought them to the door of an old Americana diner. Alfred looked around and instantly understood why someone as high class and established as Jeanne Bonnefoy wouldn't like it. It was loud and the music punctuated the air with sharp, uplifting rhythms. Alfred loved it and when they were seated at a disk shaped table he leaned onto it, pillowing his cheek onto his fist.

"I didn't take you for the burger joint type," he said easily, the music in their corner of the shop more subdued than in the front where they had walked in.

Arthur smiled genially. "Oh yes, you would be surprised by the kind of things I enjoy."

"Well at least it's not yachting," he said to himself, sitting back to admire the vinyl decorations and peppy servers.

"If you don't mind me asking, Alfred, I'm curious about something – but if it seems like too personal a question, you don't have to answer." Alfred cocked his head to the side curiously, his eyebrows tilting in slight worry. "I was curious, but why did you come to L.A. in the first place?"

Alfred fidgeted in his seat for a moment, leaving the question hanging thickly between them as a server girl stopped by to take their orders, bouncing off soon after for their drinks. "I came here because… well I just… I was looking for something and, I guess I just haven't found it yet."

The Englishman made an understanding noise. "You never know," he said, "sometimes it's never where you try to look, but instead it's right underfoot." Alfred seemed a little stunned at that, as if he thought Arthur would have already forgotten entirely about their previous conversation.

"I… well, yeah." Alfred scratched at the side of his nose. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He laughed lightly to himself. "Well it seems a bit silly to say it out loud, but I really… want to be an actor. I mean nothing big! Just… something small to prove – to prove that I really _can _do it, and well…" he trailed off momentarily. "Well you see where that got me."

"There's nothing wrong with chasing your dreams," Arthur said softly, barely audible above the swinging music. "If I had never chased my own, I would have never married Jeanne in the first place." He stopped. "The young always dream big, even if it's not what they want."

Their conversation was interrupted once again by the waitress bringing over their meals and their drinks. Alfred wasn't sure what Arthur had meant by young dreamers. If he recalled correctly, Arthur wasn't that much older than he was. "How old are you?" he asked bluntly. Arthur almost choked on a bite of his burger, taking a long gratuitous drink of his glass bottled coke. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean – you know if you don't wanna tell me that's cool! I was just wondering I mean I'm pretty sure I already know but –"

Arthur chuckled to himself. "No, no, it's fine it really is. It was just unexpected. I'm twenty three – I ahh, you might have seen it in a tabloid after Jeanne threw a massive party for me in November. There were several A-listers there to see her."

Alfred bobbed his head in acknowledgement. "I'm nineteen," he said, picking up a fry and breaking it in half, "I'll be twenty in a month – July fourth." He popped the fry in his mouth with a smile. "I bet I look a lot older than that, huh?"

"I wouldn't say so, no. Nineteen is young, but you know, I was married by your age – strange isn't it?" He tilted his coke bottle back and forth, his green eyes focused on the shape and reflection of the glass. "We lead two very different lives. Maybe we can learn something from each other, don't you think?"

"I… yeah. Yeah! I'm sure we can, Arthur."

When they left the diner, Arthur walked next to Alfred, going nowhere in particular. "Thank you for the company, Alfred. I really do enjoy it, even if you don't think it's much." He pulled back his sleeve to glance at his wristwatch. "Unfortunately I've business to attend to this evening, but I'd like to invite you over to my house tomorrow."

Alfred tripped over himself. "Yo-your _house_?" he squeaked, coughing vigorously. "Why would you want _that_?"

Arthur smiled in amusement, having foreseen this kind of reaction from the American. "It's a big, empty house, Alfred. And, well… I thought you might like a shower and a chance to wash your clothes. That's all."

The young American didn't say anything for a long time, just walked next to Arthur at a slower pace. It took Arthur a moment to realize that Alfred was starting to tear up, his face pinched as he attempted to physically repress the tears. "I'm sorry," he croaked, "You must think I'm crazy, but… that's just. You don't have to do any of this for me – but, Arthur you don't even know me and I just… I would owe you everything. I _do _owe you – more than I have."

"Alfred…" Carefully he put an arm around Alfred's shoulders, somewhat surprised at how broad they actually were. And somehow his game at that moment became a little more personal and he would not lose. "Now lad, I told you already, and I'll tell you as many times as I must. I just want your company, that's it – that's all I'll ever want. So tomorrow I'll call and I'll pick you up and I'll make you some lunch, because there's nothing better than a homemade meal – and Jeanne won't be there to yell at me."

Alfred gave him a wry smile. "Okay. Yeah. And Arthur?"

"Hm?"

"If you ever need anything else from me, don't hesitate to ask. I'll do my damnest to do anything for you – alright?"

Arthur smiled slowly. "Don't worry lad, I'll make sure to let you know if I ever need _anything_."

- End Chapter One -

* * *

_Unimportant Notes: _This is "Jordan's Socialite AU" (sanguinehero), and it has been a riot getting this all worked out with her. So if you made it to the end of the chapter, I kinda just wanna congratulate you. ^^;


	3. Chapter Two: Delving

**Just One More Time**

_Chapter Two: Delving_

The next day Alfred found himself sitting cross-legged in the bed of his Bronco, a cheap croissant sandwich with an overly juicy tomato running down the sides of one hand and his cell phone held tightly in the other. It was ten forty-five and he was anxious and worried all at once for Arthur's phone call – hoping against all odds that what the Englishman had promised him yesterday hadn't just been a delightful delusion on his part.

He had got the sandwich at a café for a dollar. It was old and shouldn't have been sold, but Alfred didn't think anything was wrong with it aside from a bit of browning lettuce. His phone rang just as he took a large bite from the sandwich. With a groan he chewed and swallowed as quickly as he could without choking and answered the call breathlessly. "He-hello?"

"_I hope I'm not ringing you at a bad time," _Arthur's voice crooned into his ear.

"Oh! No, no not at all!" He shifted awkwardly on his cot, scratching nervously at his elbow as he held the phone to his ear with his shoulder. "Uhm… did you want to talk to me about something?" he dared to ask when Arthur was silent for a few moments.

Arthur chuckled softly, _"Why yes. I have every intention of inviting you to my house – I hope that's still alright with you."_

He tried not to sound too eager, when he replied with a yes, telling Arthur which street to find him at before hanging up and clambering out of the Bronco to try and fix his appearance as best he could. The keys to the truck were poking his thigh through his pocket as he hurried down the street to the intersection that he promised to meet Arthur at, half eaten sandwich in hand.

Alfred stood at the corner of the street, pressing his hat down onto his head and eating his sandwich as he watched the stop and go traffic ahead of him. His stomach squeezed uncomfortably, and he jittered in his spot, ignoring the strange and yet blasé looks he knew he was receiving from passersby. When he had finished his sandwich, his hands shook. He was excited and scared – maybe he was dreaming, he had to have been because this had to be too good to be true; he dreamed Arthur up and now he would wake up in the back of his Bronco any second.

And Arthur… just the thought of the man made him both happy and nervous. Jeanne had a good taste in men, and Alfred was sure that she had to be proud of her choice in a husband. Arthur was kind and compassionate and handsome – he hoped that he wasn't offending anyone for thinking that. It was just an observation.

A compact, blue convertible pulled up next to him, completely ignoring traffic. Arthur smiled up at him from the driver's seat with green eyes hidden behind a pair of rectangular sunglasses. "Hello Alfred," he greeted casually over the noise of foot traffic, purring engines, and chatter. "Come on now, hop inside love." He smiled and tapped the leather upholstered seat next to him.

Alfred fidgeted for a moment before quickly doing as he was told, gingerly opening the convertible door and slipping inside. He gave Arthur a nervous smile as he buckled his belt, unsure of what to say. Thank you didn't seem adequate enough, and yet the action was so simple and effortless on Arthur's part that Alfred was embarrassed to feel so thoroughly grateful.

Arthur clapped a hand on Alfred's shoulder just before he wove easily back into traffic. "Loosen up, chap," he said with another assuring smile. "No need to be nervous. There's no reason for it."

"I know," was Alfred's quiet reply, turning his head to watch the traffic for a few long minutes. "I just… thank you so much, Arthur. It might not seem like a lot, but… thank you."

"You can thank me after your shower and lunch." The hand on his shoulder slowly moved down his arm, fingers lingering until they reached his elbow and then returned to the steering wheel. Alfred bit his lip, but said nothing.

Arthur's house was enormous. The garage itself an impressive show of money and prestige, and Alfred felt like a dirty mouse amongst primped peacocks as Arthur led him inside, pressing a warm hand to the small of Alfred's back. He took everything in with a tiny look of awe. He was in a celebrity's house – he was in _Jeanne Bonnefoy's _house and from the looks of it, she had very, very expensive tastes.

"I would give you a tour right now," Arthur started as he led Alfred through a lavishly decorated reception room and into a more subdued hallway, "but I'm assuming that the promised shower would be much more appreciated."

"I don't wanna seem ungrateful," Alfred said nervously, wringing his hands together as Arthur pushed open a door, revealing a large, white tiled bathroom with a beach mosaic on the far wall. "Oh wow."

"Everything you need should be in here," Arthur said as he pushed Alfred inside the room and then turning to open the shower stall and peer inside. "Shampoo, soap, conditioner – there is no need to worry about using anything. This one is my personal shower, so feel free to use anything as you please. Also, take as long as you wish. I'll toss your clothes in the wash."

In that moment, Alfred wanted nothing more than to hug Arthur and tell him exactly how grateful he was and how much this meant to him, but he was filthy and nervous, so he settled on a wavering smile. Arthur clapped him on the shoulder once again and stepped out, saying that he was going to start making lunch.

For a minute Alfred admired the bathroom around him, the bath mat beneath his feet, and the heavy smell of deodorizer and soaps. Carefully he shed his clothes, piling them up by the door, and tiptoed into the shower stall. It felt so nostalgic to be in a shower, his hands tracing over the silver knobs of the hot and cold taps before twisting them on. He squirmed under the sudden burst of water that came from different angles from several installed showerheads.

"This must be what heaven feels like," he said to himself as he adjusted the water, making it hotter and hotter, until he could almost feel his skin beginning to pink beneath the slowly ebbing dirt and grease. Arthur's shampoo smelled like cool mint and he relished the clean feeling and the tingle of his scalp. A year ago he wouldn't have ever thought he'd miss something as commonplace as a shower, or laundry, or even a bed.

By the time he was finished scrubbing every inch of himself at least twice the water began to run colder and his fingertips and toes were pale and pruned. He stepped out of the shower to see that his clothes were gone and a fluffy white towel had been neatly placed on the edge of the sink, his glasses sitting inconspicuously on top. Alfred shrugged. He'd never heard Arthur come in, but he had been too busy enjoying his shower so it wasn't too surprising.

Alfred toweled himself off quickly, taking a moment to examine himself in the mirror. He grimaced, touching his shoulders where he was beginning to break out. Biting his lip, Alfred wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the bathroom door, leaning out and peering into the hallway. "Uhm, Arthur?"

"I'm in the kitchen, love. Take a right down the hallway." Unsure, Alfred followed Arthur's voice back out towards the reception room he had seen earlier, spotting Arthur in the kitchen that was just around the corner. "My, my," Arthur said with an open expression, "aren't you a handsome devil under all that dirt?"

Alfred crossed his arms, making sure to cover his nipples as he shivered in the open air. "I… well… ah, thanks. For letting me use your shower. I tried not to leave a mess."

"No need to worry over that," Arthur replied with a wave of his hand. His green eyes raked across Alfred's bare torso for a long, strange moment. "Are you cold? Unfortunately your clothes are still being cleaned, but… ah, I might have something that will fit you – if not a bit snugly."

He didn't know what to say – how to respond to the kindness, or at least not properly. His fingers tapped along his biceps before he nodded, carefully following Arthur through the tangles of muted hallways and into an open room decorated with soft pastels and bold furnishings. "Is this your room?" he asked as Arthur closed the door softly behind them. "It's nice."

"I'm glad you think so. Jeanne put a lot of effort into decorating it. Her room is much more elaborate, however." Arthur ignored Alfred's confused expression. Instead he only drew closer to the American and reached out, the knuckles of his hand brushing against the lower expanse of Alfred's stomach. "Hm… yes, my clothes might be snug indeed."

Alfred grasped the knot of his towel fiercely. "Wh-what are you doing?" he whispered with fervor, an uncomfortable shiver falling down his spine as Arthur slowly spread his fingers against his stomach. "Arthur…?"

"I had hope that you wouldn't be so dense," Arthur said, his hand beginning to crawl over Alfred's skin to cover the jut of his hip, fingers starting to dip seductively below the cover of the towel. "You are such a pretty thing. Can you really blame me for wanting this? Carnal desires, Alfred, are not something to shy away from."

"What about Jeanne? I mean – why? You're married and –"

"Jeanne doesn't care. We haven't touched each other in years." Arthur cocked his head to the side, bringing his face closer and closer to Alfred's. "I'm a lonely man, Alfred. You wouldn't deny me of this, would you?"

Alfred bit his lower lip, his hands and knees beginning to tremble. Arthur's green eyes were imploring and stared at him, expectant. He brought a hand to rest on Arthur's roaming one. "Okay," he whispered. Who was he to deny Arthur Kirkland? He was kind and generous, and Alfred had to admit, with the way the man was gently palming at his skin, green eyes searching his face with a tilted smile, it was hard to find the man unattractive. After all it _was _Arthur Kirkland.

Arthur pressed his lips to Alfred's collarbone, slowly pushing the American towards his downy bed. "How experienced are you?" he asked as Alfred sat on the mauve duvet.

"Not… very." He shuddered as Arthur loosened the tie around his neck. "I've given blowjobs for a couple bucks but… shit, I can't… couldn't…"

He was silenced from his nervous ramblings by a finger being pressed to his lips. "You've thought of prostituting yourself?"

"Once. I thought… I really wanted to go home – but… I couldn't – couldn't do it." He found that his hands had made their way to the bottom button of Arthur's shirt. "I'm not a virgin, if that's what you mean. But the last time… was years ago."

Arthur pulled the glasses from Alfred's face, folding them neatly and putting them on top of his dresser. "Well, that's a relief to hear. I'm quite glad you didn't run out of here screaming." Arthur's smile was less amused than it was annoyed, and Alfred wondered if something like that was a common occurrence. "Either way, you're here, I'm here, and I'd desperately love some company."

Alfred popped open the first button of Arthur's shirt. He didn't know what else to say, didn't want to convey his nervousness – fuck, he was going to sleep with a celebrity. _A celebrity_. "Well, I do kinda owe you," he mumbled as Arthur's hands began to roam across his shoulders before they fell down to his towel and pulled it away.

"Your reasons are your own," was Arthur's only reply. He lost his shirt and trousers quickly, urging Alfred further and further onto the bed, until they were both in the middle. Alfred sat with his legs crossed, Arthur looming over him in just a pair of boxer briefs. The Englishman smiled devilishly down at him and leaned across the bed, pulling at a small knob amongst a few in the headboard of his bed. "A perk about having some money," he said offhandedly, "is nifty things such as the drawers here. Very handy for condoms and lube." He pursed his lips. "Jeanne used to agree."

He didn't want to question Arthur, didn't feel that it was his place. Instead he looked at the small, built in drawers with a smile. "Yeah, my sister had a bed like that when we were kids."

Arthur gave him an unimpressed look, closing the drawer with a tube of lube and a condom package in his hand. He pointed to the mattress. "Hands and knees, if you'd please."

The Englishman's tone was businesslike and huffed, but Alfred only shrugged and did as he was told, exposing himself to the celebrity before him. Arthur's hands were on him, feeling along the swells and curves of Alfred's ass and legs. He didn't feel particularly handsome; not since he'd found himself homeless. His muscles were less defined, his skin pallid and unhealthy – what he wouldn't give to brush his teeth.

"Honestly, at least pretend you enjoy it," Arthur said into the dip of his back.

Alfred gave a shuddering sigh. "I do… I do… I just – I don't feel too sexy or whatever. I mean you shouldn't have to stoop to someone like me and – mmph!"

"Shh, now pet," Arthur purred into Alfred's ear, licking the shell with a quick flick of his warm tongue, a hand covering Alfred's mouth. "You look fine. Yes, I'm sure you've looked better and… if you let me, I can help you get there again. Just let me…" A cold, lube slicked finger was pressed into his entrance and Alfred gasped at the lack of warning. "Mm, you really _are _tight."

Arthur's breath was hot against his shoulder, two of the fingers that covered his mouth slipped past his lips and he tentatively licked at them, sucking them further into his mouth when he felt Arthur begin to grow hard, his stiffening cock pressing against the back of his thigh. Arthur worked him open diligently, his fingers eventually leaving his mouth and trailing down his chin and neck, leaving a trail of his own saliva in their wake.

"Ah… shit, hmm… I forgot what it's like – like to have someone's fingers up your ass," Alfred groaned out as Arthur's fingers prodded carefully inside of him, brushing over his prostate lightly enough to send sporadic shivers up his spine and make his abs tighten.

Arthur tapped his wet fingers back against Alfred's lips. "Let's refrain from talking; moan, scream, sigh – no talking."

Alfred nodded, taking a moment to lick the fingers at his lips. He breathed heavily through his nose, occasionally stroking himself as Arthur finished, pausing to roll a condom on his cock and slather extra lube inside of Alfred's entrance. Arthur's knees moved next to Alfred's, pressing against the outsides. With a sigh he pulled Alfred into a sitting position by his shoulders, touching his mouth to the shell of Alfred's ear. "Have you ever done it like this?" he whispered.

"I thought you said no talking?"

"You; no talking." Arthur gave a breathless chuckle. "Now, lean back into me." Alfred did as he was told, pressing his back against Arthur's chest as one of the Englishman's hands settled onto his hip, the other holding his own erection, guiding it as Alfred slowly sunk down into his lap.

A throaty moan made its way out of Alfred's mouth as the head of Arthur's cock penetrated him, pushing in ever so slowly. It burned, and Alfred bit his lower lip, dragging it between his teeth as Arthur sunk into him as deeply as he could, pulling Alfred down by his hips. "Oh, now this won't do," Arthur mumbled hoarsely, palming a hand over Alfred's softening cock. "Show me how much you want this."

Alfred shuddered underneath Arthur's touch. He slowly lifted himself up, careful to make sure Arthur wouldn't slip out by sitting up too far, and slid back down, letting the feel of Arthur's hot sigh against the back of his neck wash over him. His hands fell onto Arthur's thighs behind him, using them as purchase as he attempted to make some kind of rhythm, Arthur's hand fondling him as he went.

"Do you think you can come like this?" Arthur asked, pressing chapped lips to Alfred's sweaty shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Alfred and thrust up into him sharply, without warning. "Oh god just like that – just like that and I'll come – _shit_."

Alfred mewled, hoping that it sounded even vaguely like a yes. He tried bouncing himself onto Arthur, but the Englishman held him still, rocking up into a few times before making another sharp thrust. Arthur continued this slow and fast pattern until Alfred was whining in the back of his throat, trying to push himself down and make the curve of Arthur's cock rub against his prostate over and over.

"Hungh, you like this don't you? You like my cock up your arse, don't you, pet?" Arthur's hands were all over him, grabbing and pinching at every inch of his skin, finally coming up to rest lightly around the base of Alfred's neck as his rhythm broke and he thrust haphazardly into the American, biting at the nape of Alfred's neck as his pace became fast and hard.

With a keening groan, Alfred came, pressing his cock to his stomach to try and avoid ruining Arthur's obviously expensive blankets. Arthur's fingers dug painfully into Alfred's hips and he finished with a few more final thrusts. He gasped into Alfred's back, his fingers starting to spasm in post climax before he slumped against the exhausted American and slid his limp cock out.

"Can I talk now?" Alfred asked cheekily, shifting up and spreading his legs out in front of him, trying to ease the ache in his knees.

"Yes, yes." Arthur caught Alfred's wrist and stared at him. Alfred's heart leapt up into his throat and he waited for Arthur say something, something that told him what that smoldering stare could possibly be for. "You're a good shag."

Alfred grunted. "Thanks. I guess… you are too." He sat on the edge of the bed, trying to wiggle feeling back into his toes. "Is it alright if I take another shower?"

Arthur chuckled, lying back with a contented expression on his face, the used condom tied off and tossed to the side. "Sure. Take your time. Lunch is ready for you in the kitchen."

"Okay, I'm sure I can find it." He grabbed his discarded towel, leaning over Arthur for a moment. Arthur's smiled was a sated, accomplished one, and Alfred contemplated maybe trying to kiss it. He shook his head to himself, moving away and heading for where he remembered the bathroom to be. A kiss… he wanted to, but he had a feeling that he wasn't allowed. It was too intimate an action, especially for someone he'd only met a handful of times. That and he was sure his breath smelled absolutely rank.

His second shower was much shorter than his first, and he was glad to find that Arthur left him a fresh towel and his now clean clothes. Alfred pressed his nose into the deodorized collar of his shirt, smelling the lavender scented laundry soap.

Maybe Arthur wanted some unsavory things from him, but with a set of clean clothes on his recently scrubbed skin, Alfred found that he didn't _care_. This right here was the greatest opportunity he'd had since he found himself in L.A. He'd made little friends, only the sweet woman who worked at the soup kitchen he'd been lucky enough to find room in every once and awhile, and a librarian that kindly turned his eyes whenever Alfred slipped into the public restrooms to try and use the sink to clean off as well as he could.

Arthur was a well-connected man – or at least more so than anyone he'd ever had the chance to meet, and even more, his wife was _Jeanne Bonnefoy_. Alfred glanced in the mirror, absently rubbing at a small, pinking hicky on his neck. "I really did owe him," he mumbled to himself. "I still do…" Hopefully today wouldn't be the last time he saw Arthur Kirkland.

With the end of that train of thought, he left the bathroom and retraced his steps to the kitchen. Arthur stood at a rounded table with decorative edges, a bag of Ruffled Lays crinkling in his hands as he pulled it open. "Hello there, Alfred," he greeted casually, placing the bag on the table beside a platter stacked with sandwich halves. He wore his slacks looser than usual, his button-up shirt was untucked and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows with the first three buttons undone. He looked casual, or as casual as Alfred figured he would ever get to see Arthur, and Arthur looked good. "I had intended on making something more substantial than this, but I didn't realize how little we actually keep at hand." Arthur's nose scrunched up for a moment. "We eat out too often."

"No, no, this is great!" Alfred said quickly, waving around his hands. "It really is. Thank you."

Arthur's smile was smug and he quickly coughed into his hand before Alfred could question it. "If you insist. Go on, have a seat. Do you like lemonade?"

Alfred nodded as he plucked a couple of the sandwich halves from the platter, setting them neatly on his plate. "Hey Arthur?" he asked softly once they were both seated and their plates filled. Alfred added the chips to his sandwich, despite Arthur's incredulous looks. "About earlier…"

"Yes?" the Englishman prompted when Alfred only trailed off, thumbing at the building condensation on his glass of lemonade.

"Is… is that… I well." Alfred sighed. "I guess you're never gunna want to see me again, right?"

Arthur frowned before taking a sip of his lemonade. "Let's think reasonably for a moment, shall we?" He waited for Alfred to look less confused, anticipating his response with curious blue eyes – Lord was the boy a handsome thing when he cleaned up. "If I had simply wanted a one night stand – or day, in this case – do you really believe that I would have went through such an effort?"

"I… well, no…"

"Did it occur to you that I might have good intentions?" And yet Arthur didn't look hurt or accused at his words. It was only as if he were attempting to drive his statement, expectant and curious for Alfred's meek answer of _well yeah maybe_. "Now, thinking reasonably, do you believe I want nothing more to do with you? Simply because I saw your willie?"

Alfred flushed a rosy pink. "That's not -! I just -! I wanted to know if I'd see you again, is all. I didn't mean to make you mad or nothing."

Arthur grinned slowly, leaning forward over the table. He caught Alfred's eyes in a half lidded gaze, his smile almost curling at the edges with a secret pleasure. "Oh, if I have my way, Alfred Jones, we'll be seeing much, much more of one another."

-End Chapter Two-

* * *

_Unimportant Notes: _Hiii! I hope the absurd UKUS in this chapter makes up for the surprise RusEng last chapter. :U Remember this is Jordan's socialite AU! :3

Also thank you to **Razzledazzy** for betaing this chapter! :D


End file.
